


Birds of a Feather

by thebeespatella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Body Horror, Body Image, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Feminization, Homophobic Language, M/M, Manipulation, Podfic Welcome, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8104078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella
Summary: Mr. WILLIAM GRAHAM,We hope this e-mail finds you well. This season, we are excited to present a new and revolutionized edition of Swan Lake, by renowned guest director Dr. Hannibal Lecter. After a careful review of your work, Dr. Lecter has selected you to audition for the part of ODETTE/ODILE. The audition will be at 4 p.m. on Thursday, at Studio B.
  --
A Black Swan AU—written for the Hannibal Big Bang 2016.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mokuyoubi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/gifts), [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/gifts).



> You can also find me at [the-bees-patella](https://the-bees-patella.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> Check out the lovely art for this story by theseavoices [here](http://theseavoices.tumblr.com/post/150731232676/illustrations-for-birds-of-a-feather-an-amazing)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This is an AU based off the movie _Black Swan_ —you don’t have to have watched Black Swan, but I would recommend being familiar with the original story of _Swan Lake_. 
> 
> For [mokuyoubi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi), who was supportive and enthusiastic about this idea, and of course, [theseavoices](http://theseavoices.tumblr.com/), who made such beautiful art for this story. Thank you so, so much for putting up with me.

“We all know the story. Virginal girl, pure and sweet, trapped in the body of a swan. She desires freedom but only true love can break the spell. Her wish is nearly granted in the form of a prince, but before he can declare his love, her lustful twin, the black swan, tricks and seduces him. Devastated, the white swan leaps off a cliff, killing herself, and, in death, finds freedom.”

\- Thomas Leroy, _Black Swan_

 

“Once upon a time.”

\- Hannibal Lecter, _“Primavera”_

  **ACT I**

&

As Will stretches in the hallway, he takes out the crumpled piece of paper from his bag and smooths it out on the floor in front of him:

_Mr. WILLIAM GRAHAM,_

_We hope this e-mail finds you well. This season, we are excited to present a new and revolutionized edition of Swan Lake, by renowned guest director Dr. Hannibal Lecter._

_After a careful review of your work, Dr. Lecter has selected you to audition for the part of ODETTE/ODILE. The audition will be at 4 p.m. on Thursday, at Studio B._

_Regards,  
Alana Bloom, Artistic Director_

He can see some of the other soloists hunched over their phones down the hall.

“Wait, Bev—you’re not auditioning for Odette?”

“No, of course not. He wants me to be a Big Swan—but Randall is.”

“He wants me to be a Big Swan, too!”

“So what is this, like a gay _Swan Lake_? Like the ’97 version? That was awful. Those hairy shorts?”

“I’m sure whatever Dr. Lecter has in mind will be beautiful.”

“Oh, suck more dick, Brian.”

Will had also wondered, early last afternoon, if he’d gotten the right email, but Alana had emailed him back assuring him that everything was in order. Because—Odette is one of the most ancient pillars of the canon, the crown jewel of a prima ballerina’s repertoire. To give him the chance to audition for it suggests something truly unusual.

He puts in his headphones and turns the volume way up, drowning out everything that isn’t the weeping willow-slow slide of Tchaikovsky’s strings. Eyes closed, he fights the rippling fist of trepidation in his stomach, trying to recall what he can of the choreography until he feels a light tap on his ankle. It’s Beverly Katz. “Time to go in,” she says, when he pulls out an ear bud, and he follows her in.

Studio B is as quiet as he’s ever seen it. Dancers have piled in, both to watch and be watched. Alana is at the other end of the room, in a pretty patterned dress, next to the dance coordinator Dr. Chilton, who’s wearing a particularly oily smile this afternoon. And next to both of them is the most severe man Will has ever seen. He’s dressed in a plaid red-and-gray suit and paisley silk tie that seems downright festive compared to the graven stone of his sharp features, hair combed back neatly.

His pocket square matches his tie.

It’s so quiet Will wants to laugh, but instead he hides his absurd smile in the cowl of his sweatshirt and finds a good spot in the corner of the room.

“Good afternoon,” Alana says, smiling and standing up.

“Good afternoon,” they chorus back.

“Thank you all for your time,” she says, as though each of them wouldn’t have killed to audition for a new production, the hope of advancement. “I’d like to introduce you all to Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

The man doesn’t stand, but inclines his head at the hesitant applause.

“He and I worked together, much earlier in my career—so I can say with authority that we’re very lucky to have him this year—but I’ll let him take over. You’re all eager to get started, I’m sure.” A polite titter of laughter. She smiles again brightly, and sits back down, careful to tuck her dress back under her.

Dr. Lecter rises. “Good afternoon.” His voice is rich and pleasant, a vaguely cold accent putting a crisp clip to his words. He holds up a hand to abate any response. Nobody breathes. “Thank you, Dr. Bloom, for such a kind introduction. I am, in turn, honored that the New York Ballet Company is hosting me this season.

“You may have noted some anomalies in your audition papers,” says Dr. Lecter. “It is entirely purposeful. I rarely do anything without purpose. And so we may have a male Odette, or a mixed foursome of cygnets. This will, of course, require some adaptation on our parts and Petipa’s choreography, but—ballet is about beauty, and gender is a primitive way to limit our own abilities to create art.”

Will scratches his nose.

“I will, of course, seek to find a balance in the casting, but casting can often be like casting a fishing line: One never knows what one might reel in. But—” A small smile tilts his lips. “Enough from me. Let us wade into the quiet of the stream.”

A fevered determination to impress fills the room as Dr. Lecter watches first the cygnets, then the first _pas de six_ , then the big swans. He delivers the choreography calmly, walking them through it once, more in words than in motion, and then sitting back down to observe in complete silence. Even Will shifts uncomfortably on the floor as the only sounds are the piano and the dusty _thump thump thump_ of pointe shoes on the floor.

They all keep watching Dr. Lecter, but to no avail. Frankly, Will’s met more emotional cacti. Dr. Lecter isn’t even taking notes or talking to Alana, just watching, albeit with rapt attention. It is as though he aspires to be a more precise Degas; Will thinks he catches him cataloging the dancer’s shadows.

It does nothing to ease the knots in his stomach. He can feel every inch of his skin as though he’s been flayed and stitched back up inside out, in contact with the tremulous air. The metronome of his heart amplified to amphitheater, out of sync with the music.

Time shifts but doesn’t move, the sky darkening outside but every agitated hope standing still. He drags his tongue over the roof of his mouth and it’s parched. He wants to get more water but he can’t leave the room.

“Finally, the Swan Queen.” Dr. Lecter stands, and Will scrambles to get up. It’s him, Randall, and Abigail, stark and alone in the middle of the floor, and he’s never paid closer attention in his life. “This role is—important to me,” Dr. Lecter says softly. It almost sounds like a warning. “I don’t need to see very much to know what I want. Bear that in mind.

“The choreography is in two parts—Odette and Odile. It is up to you to decide how to divide them. I want to see the difference.” He takes them through the choreography (“But for once, I won’t be looking for precision”—Will sees Abigail twitch; she lives for perfected technique), and then he sits down.

“Mr. Graham,” he says. “Why don’t you go first.”

Will takes his place in the center and he can’t help but close his eyes, if only for a moment, if only to shutter out Alana’s encouraging smile and Dr. Lecter’s insistent impassiveness. His nerves are singing at a painful pitch.

So instead, he focuses inward, unearths an image from the place he rarely dares to venture. It comes from the images etched on the concave of his eyes—a teacup falls from a distance (perhaps an accident, or a petty flight of impetuousness); first, the moment of impact on the floor, the harsh sharp shattering noise—Odile. Then the gentle crinkle of broken china as it’s swept up, thin petals of porcelain fractured in an improbable puzzle—Odette.

He lets the feeling roll through his spine so he stands perfectly still, drawing his foot back and letting his arms breathe, as he inhabits the bodies he needs to. He opens his eyes. He can drown out all the static of the outside world—it’s just him, the mirrors, and the swans. The light notes trickle into being, and fragility tingles in his fingertips, and he imagines.

Breathe in, breathe out. Cross stage right with arabesques as quiet as you can make them, tilting into turns like the inevitable fall from grace. Let her pain color your features; the yawning yearning, wide like a cave. Flutter your feet in as close as you can get to a bourée. Pull your arms back (the slide of bone under muscle, adjust the angles of your shoulders) and forth to imitate wings. (Feathers emerging from your fingernails.)

 _Pirouette en attitude, developpé écarté_ —angle your wrists just right. As the tempo picks up, let the fever fill your veins, cross into stage left with an imperious reach of your fingers—

He dances, stage right for Odette, stage left for Odile.

He loses himself—but whenever he crosses right in the center, he feels Dr. Lecter’s eyes flicker into his consciousness, like Venetian blinds; a quick open-close of disorientation. It’s as though Dr. Lecter is trying to pry into the image, dashing the teacup off the table himself. And then as he reaches the finale— _fouetté, fouetté, fouetté_ —he can’t fix his eyes on a single point— _fouetté, fouetté, fouetté_ —for fear of being swallowed in Dr. Lecter’s hungry gaze—fouetté—and—

He stumbles. He tries to land in fourth position and he stumbles.

This isn’t fucking gymnastics. There are no points for _almost_.

He’s dizzy and breathing too hard, and shaking, and the nausea overtakes him so robustly that even as Dr. Lecter stands to approach him, it’s all he can do not to collapse. Instead, he bolts: he turns tail and flees.

He barely makes it to the toilet in time. His head collides with the cold tile of the bathroom stall as he sags against it, gulping down air as his throat burns with bile. Every inhale is the thin stab of a stiletto against his sternum—he hadn’t realized how much he’d thrown into the dance, but sweat is pouring down his face and his thighs are trembling. His heart is clenching at a mad pace, and he can imagine the blood flowing through and out, leaving the chambers to seize on empty space.

Will wishes he could cry. But he just retches again instead. 

&

When he’d moved to New York City, it had felt airless, like waiting for a wave to crest over you and drown. Nobody stops. Nobody says hello. The pavement is crusted with cigarette butts and old gum. But now Will is grateful for the blessed callousness. It’s easy to disappear on the train and stare mindlessly at his reflection in the subway doors as he sways with the limping rhythm of the train with everyone else. In the harsh light, he looks worse than usual, cheeks hollow, eyes dark with exhaustion. He looks wasteful, just another jackass trying to make it big in the Big Apple.

His sigh fogs up the glass and he closes his eyes until his stop. The walk home is mechanical, one foot in front of the other. He has to jiggle the lock on the door of his apartment, and is comforted by the smell of food, despite himself.

Jack’s in the kitchen, tasting something on the stove. Will opens his mouth to say something, but finds that there’s a dead bird where his voice should be, so he heads to the shower instead.

The bathroom is white and austere. Jack must have cleaned. Will strips, wincing as his muscles burn in protest. What it must be like to be normal and to be able to get into the bath without pain. He turns the water on as hot as it will go, then stands in the spray, letting it wash away the day.

It’ll be fine. So he won’t get the part, but it wasn’t something he was expecting anyway. It’ll be fine. It wasn’t a big deal, except—except everyone saw, and he had been so lost in the teacup shards and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t look that deep anymore, and Dr. Lecter’s face seems to be etched in cold ink behind his eyelids.

Dr. Lecter. Talk about white and austere. Will puts a dollop of shampoo in his palm, lathers it through his hair. What a brutally still man. It’s hard to imagine him dancing. Was he just as controlled and unblinking? Yet there was something in the dark corners of his face that said that he knew what he was asking for when he asked for the wildness of Odile. Some certainty of ideal. And ideal—well, it certainly wasn’t him. Abigail probably did twenty-eight fouttés and finished smiling.

Will rinses away the soap, tipping his head back into the spray.

When he dries himself off, the sensation of stumbling still nips at his ankles.

A sharp knock on the door; Will starts and bangs his head against the medicine cabinet door.

“Will?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Dinner’s ready.”

“Okay.”

Will wraps the towel around himself and pads to his bedroom. When he emerges, dressed, Jack has set the table, and is sitting, waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sliding into his chair.

“It’s fine,” says Jack. He’s already apportioned the food, and Will tries to eat, he really does.

Jack eats in silent gusto. His plate is clean when he finally sits back and asks, “So? How did it go?”

Will toys with a piece of eggplant. “Dr. Lecter is...intense.”

Jack nods. “I worked with him once or twice.”

“He asks a lot.”

“But nothing you can’t give,” Jack says. “Right, Will? I know you did great.”

“Well, I—”

_Fouetté, fouetté, fouetté—_

Two maroon eyes in the gloaming.

“It was—”

The fork clatters against the plate as Will curls up into himself and buries his face in his hands. Everything cracks at once, the awful day shattering like a mirror as his body finally releases a sob. “I—I messed up.” The glass spiders and falls in a gentle rain of a thousand cuts.

“How—”

“I’m sorry. I fell. I’m so sorry—”

“Will—”

“I know you w-work so hard for me, and I _fell_ , Jack, I’m s-so sorry—I’ll do better—”

Jack stands and places a hand on Will’s shoulder. It’s all he can think to do, patiently waiting for the pain to subside for the both of them. 

&

It’s not easy to ignore everyone’s eyes, heavy on him as he walks into class, but he has experience avoiding them and so does his best to disappear, picking a spot on the barre in the corner of the room.

Class is good. Class reminds him how to stand, how to move, centers him so he can’t think of anything but attaining perfection in a _demi-plié_. The simplest movements elevated to art, and he can get lost in it. He watches himself in the mirror, satisfied, for once, with the line of his leg, the turnout in his ankles and feet. Maybe—maybe it won’t be so terrible. Nobody’s really looking at him anymore when they move to the center, but he can still feel Madame du Maurier’s eyes boring into the back of his head. She is like a scavenging bird of prey; circling the room, waiting in elegant nonchalance for a fumble. Will has to focus to pull concentric vultures out of his eyes and focus on keeping his movements precise, making sure his toes are sharp through a _pas de bourée_ and the next pirouette.

He’s pleasantly limber at the end of class—in good equilibrium. He’ll have to stay warm; he doesn’t have rehearsal for a few hours. They’ll be blocking _The Nutcracker_ , but he’s done it twice before so it’ll be more relaxed, and, after yesterday, feeling competent will be nice.

He towels sweat off his neck as he wanders into the hallway. There’s a huge bustling crowd blocking the way to the dressing room, and he frowns. “Excuse me,” he mutters, trying to push by the excited mass around the notice board. He really doesn’t want to look—be reminded. The sting of failure is still too fresh. Someone would mention who got the role, and he’d congratulate them later, but for now—

An arm snags around his neck. “I can’t believe it!”

“What—?” But he barely has time to say anything before someone else has come up to him, going on excitedly about luck and Dr. Lecter. The chattering is high-pitched and unbearable until Beverly grips him by the arm and steers him to the front of the crowd so he can finally get a look at the list.

And there it is, in fine black ink:

_Odette/Odile - Will Graham_

“Congratulations!”

"Congratulations, Will!"

“I knew you could do it,” somebody else is saying, but there’s an odd ringing there in his ears that makes it difficult to really take the words in.

“Excuse me,” he says firmly, turning right back around, “excuse me, there’s somebody I need to see.” He pushes through the throng of people to march straight to the offices, and opens the door without knocking.

Dr. Lecter is alone. He’s standing by the window, examining sheet music in the city daylight. The spare office room is small, stacked with books, and cleaner than Will has ever seen it.

Today Dr. Lecter’s suit is sky-pane blue. The concise way it conveys unhurried fussiness annoys Will; if only appearances could be deceiving once in awhile.

“Ah, Mr. Graham.” Dr. Lecter sets the papers down on the handsome wooden desk between them. “I was hoping to—”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“Why give me the part?”

“Not fond of eye contact, are you.”

Will takes a moment to fix Dr. Lecter with a pointed glare. His eyes are as unreadable as before, but Will trudges through. “No. But not the point.”

“Don't you want the role?”

“Still not the point.”

“But isn’t it?” Dr. Lecter steps around the desk to lean against it in an artful study of carelessness. Only, Will watches the studied way his hands lace together in his lap. “The question is whether or not you are suited to dance the role. And the answer is—I could not have designed a finer brush myself.”

Will snorts before he can help himself. “I’m guessing you’re the painter.”

“And the canvas the stage.”

“And the paint?”

“True beauty is transmutable; ever-shifting. To answer that would be circumspect.” Dr. Lecter looks absurdly at peace.

Will takes a deep, staving breath. “Well, save the metaphors, Dr. Lecter. I fell. There’s no way I’m the best brush.” He says it as flatly as he can, but it still smacks of acid.

There’s a long pause. Dr. Lecter narrows his eyes, then stands from the desk to collect a mug from the windowsill. “Are you familiar with the concept of _wabi-sabi_ , Will?” He shakes his head, and Dr. Lecter draws nearer. “It’s a concept in Japanese aesthetics, that the imperfect is the most beautiful. That this cup”—he puts it in Will’s hands, and coffee sloshes dangerously inside—”is all the more beautiful for its imbalance. See the grooves there, where the potter’s fingers lay? The warp here, the uneven touch of the glaze?

“Each of these are sacrifices symmetry has made in pursuit of capturing the individual moment in the soft tether of clay. That richness of a single moment—cannot be replicated or brought back. A restless cycle, death leaving his sticky fingerprints all over rebirth.”

Will tries his best to look impressed. “Dr. Lecter, I…I’m not a teacup.”

“I admit.” Dr. Lecter takes the cup back. “It was a jarring disruption to an otherwise beautiful performance. Technically excellent. Odette—on the brink of devastation. But falling—falling...”

“Falling _what_?” he snaps.

“Falling proved you could be Odile.”

“That’s some straight-up bullshit, Dr. Lecter.” Embarrassment ignites him and he has to cross his arms against the next thought, “Did Jack talk to you?”

“Jack? Jack Crawford?” For once, Dr. Lecter sounds caught off-guard. Will can only jerk his head in response. “No...and it would not have swayed my opinion, regardless.”

“Then you talked to Alana. Something happened in between the audition and this morning, because I shouldn’t have this part—I _fell_ —and if you don’t want to tell me, fine, but I’m not some goddamn charity case—”

“You are naive to think that in this world, a sad story counts for anything,” Dr. Lecter says, and it’s as though the room has frozen over.

They stare at each other from across the small room. “Are you refusing the role?” Dr. Lecter finally asks.

“Would you let me?” Will retorts.

“It would be,” and Dr. Lecter has to close his eyes, “ _unfathomably_ rude for you to refuse such an opportunity.”

“Not to mention _unfathomably_ stupid.” Will wants to stop looking, but there’s the elusive quality of a mirror that haunts Dr. Lecter’s face, and he’s been waiting for him to betray himself, but nothing moves.

“Is that a concession?”

Will’s only response is to turn toward the door.

“If you must know,” Hannibal says as Will’s hand lights on the doorknob, “I picked you for your shoulder blades.”

Will stops, shudders at the imagining of a touch in the middle of his back.

“They look like wings.”

&

_They look like wings._ Like chicken wings, maybe, Will thinks dourly to himself as he examines his shoulder blades in the mirror later that day. They're back in Studio B for the first day, and the large windows and bright sunlight are doing nothing for his self-consciousness.

As a dancer, he is used to scrutinizing himself—looking in the mirror and seeing what other people see. But to see himself as Dr. Lecter sees him is much more difficult than usual, even with Will’s particular talents. He’s been waiting, for the time being, as Dr. Lecter takes the Russian dancers through their steps, staying warm on the side, but he can still feel his weight, heavy like smoke-clogged air in his chest.

He’s so busy avoiding Dr. Lecter’s eyes that he’s nearly startled when he claps his hands. “Thank you. An hour for lunch, I think.”

Will sighs, perhaps with relief.

“Mr. Graham.”

Goddammit.

“Would you care to take a walk with me?”

Will’s stomach growls at him. “I—fine.” He throws on a pair of sweatpants for decency, and swaps his sweat-drenched shirt for a new one. Dr. Lecter holds the door out of the building open for him.

“An hour for lunch?” Will asks. “I don’t know where you worked where a dancer’s lunch is more than a couple of cigarettes and a Red Bull.”

“I brought us a little something. Protein scramble?”

Will looks down at the little bag Dr. Lecter has in his hands. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Mr. Graham, if you are going to apologize to me, I’d rather you meant it.”

Will sneaks a look up at that carved face. There’s an element of humor there—Will mirrors the small smile with a larger one of his own. “You’re right. I’m not. I mean,” he amends. “I am sorry I yelled at you.”

“Simply because I am your director?”

“Not _only_ that.” He sighs and puts his hands in his pockets. “Jack says I sell myself short.”

“Jack seems to have a lot to say.”

They head upstream towards the park. Will almost has to jog to keep up with Dr. Lecter’s long strides as they duck and weave in between packs of people along a busy city avenue. “Uh—what’re we doing, Dr. Lecter?”

“Please, call me Hannibal. I am, after all, your director.” They cross the last crosswalk before the entrance to the park. “And...I thought it would be beneficial to observe the swans.”

“In their _natural_ habitat.”

They sit on a sun-warmed bench some distance from the lake, and Hannibal passes him a plastic container.

“Real silverware,” Will says. “Fine dining.”

“Only the best for my dancers,” Hannibal replies.

Will thoughtlessly puts a bite of what looks like sausage and eggs in his mouth. “Holy shit,” he mumbles around his mouthful. “I mean. Thank you. This is delicious.”

A father and his child stand on the very edge of the lake, tossing bits of bread into the water to watch the birds swarm to the food. He’s got her backpack slung over her shoulder, candy-pink and embellished with a sparkly drawing of pointe shoes. Will can’t look at it for too long.

“It amuses us,” Hannibal says, “to think we exert so much control over our fellow creatures.”

“Speak for yourself,” Will mutters, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to have heard him. He clears his throat. “They’re mute swans.”

Hannibal looks at him steadily. “Mute?”

“That’s just what they’re called. They’re not literally mute.”

The child steals a glance at her father, who’s paused to read something on his phone, and sneaks a toe over the edge of the water.

“We think silence will protect us, but it is a cage.” Hannibal tilts his head, considering the scene. “Shall we get closer?”

Will passes him his container of food—nearly empty—then follows him out from under the shade of the trees. The water has that murky smell of being dirty but treated, bread and bird droppings notwithstanding.

“Talk to me about your swan. Tell me about her.”

“My swan?” Will raises an eyebrow at Hannibal. 

“Of course the swan is yours,” Hannibal says, smiling indulgently. “It is your dance, after all.”

“My dance.” _And a million women before._ Will bites his lip, looks up at the trees. “Sometimes,” he says, and sighs heavily, wondering how much is safe to say. “Sometimes, I get—I get too close.” 

“But is that not the art?” Hannibal murmurs. “That you are, both of you, one and the same.”

The father is talking loudly on the phone now. The child loses her balance for a thrilling moment, and Will winces in anticipation. But between her windmill arms and instinct for survival, she rights herself, and steps off the ledge. Hannibal is watching her also—they make eye contact, and he raises an eyebrow at her. She flushes and runs to tug the slice of bread from her father’s hand, and he relinquishes it easily, turning away from her.

“She could drown, just like that. He wouldn’t see a thing,” Will says. Hannibal makes a noise of acknowledgment but does not stop looking at her. “She knows.”

“Pardon?”

“She knows he wouldn’t notice. Not now, not ever.”

She steps closer to them, and, overcome with the absurd brashness that comes with her age, wordlessly holds out the bread to Hannibal.

“I think you’ve already fed them for us,” he says. “Quite a bit, don’t you think?”

Will watches Hannibal watch the girl. “My name is Marie,” she decides, holding out the hand not holding bread. Hannibal shakes it solemnly.

“My name is Hannibal. This is Will.”

“I thought it was _Mr. Graham_ ,” Will mutters, but also shakes hands.

Her father has not turned around.

“I like your backpack,” Will offers.

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches.

“My dad took me to class today, because my mom is—away.” She glances over her shoulder back at her father. “Miss Anna said my pliés were good today.”

“Pliés are, perhaps, the most important part of ballet,” Hannibal says. “Will and I work at the Ballet.”

Marie nearly drops her bread in surprise. “Really?”

“Really.” Will looks down to where Hannibal seems to be pointing at his crotch, but he’s merely indicating the NYBC logo on Will’s sweatpants. “So, Marie. I have a question for you.”

He says her name with a soft _r_ , as in French. Probably speaks it fluently. Will stares at a swan instead of rolling his eyes, and it snaps its beak at him.

Hannibal pinches his trousers up to crouch down to her height. “Do you know the story of Swan Lake?”

“Of _course_.”

“Will is going to be Odette this season. What do you think?”

Marie scrutinizes him with a look that reminds him oddly of Madame du Maurier. “Isn’t Odette supposed to be a lady?”

“Do you think that matters very much?”

“Well, Siegfried is supposed to fall in love with her.”

“And two men can’t be in love?”

“Jesus Christ, Hannibal—” Will looks anywhere but at the girl’s curious little face.

“I’ve never seen a man be Odette before,” she says, slowly. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”

Hannibal positively beams at her. It’s disturbingly and radiantly magnetic. “Atta girl.”

“Marie?” Her father has ended his call, and is looking around for her; less frantic than Will would like. “Marie? Marie!”

“Finally,” Will says under his breath.

Hannibal takes a business card out of the inside of his jacket. “Thank you very much for your help, Marie,” he says, straightening and handing it to her. “And if you need something—say, tickets to see Will in January—just call the second number.”

“The second number,” she repeats dutifully, and tucks the card carefully in her shorts pocket.

Will swears he winks at her as he takes Will by the arm to walk away. “That’s our time up, I think,” Hannibal says lightly.

“If I’d known it was gonna be the Hannibal Lecter Preaching Hour,” Will says, “I would’ve stayed in the studio.”

But Hannibal only smiles more widely. “You would be much more comfortable if you just relaxed with yourself, Will.”

“What’re you trying to prove, anyway? I _know_ —”

“That the Swan is yours, absolutely. You had doubts that you could claim her.”

“Considering it’s a _her_ —”

“Marie did not seem to think it was a problem,” Hannibal says. “Why should you?”

“Only after you—made her say it.”

“I did no such thing.” Hannibal sniffs. “The patterns of convention dictate our expectations, but they should have no bearing on our tastes. Oh, Will.” He stops. He actually stops, in the middle of the street. Several people snarl at him, but he is unmovable. “Are you afraid?”

“I’m not,” Will answers, too quickly, his turn to grab Hannibal’s arm and drag him up the street. “I just...never really thought of it as mine, before.”

“Well.” Hannibal brushes imaginary lint from the lapel of his jacket. “Now that you feel proprietary—is it easier?”

“Not really.” Will makes a face. “A little bit.”

“What an extraordinarily polite child,” Hannibal muses as he opens the door for Will again.

“You just like her because she gave you what you wanted,” Will says.

“Did you not find her charming?”

“She was fine, I guess.” Will runs a hand through his hair. “Children and I. Don’t do well.”

“I think you did excellently, Will. Consider it your first public appearance.”

“ _My what—_ ”

But Hannibal does not answer, leaving Will to contemplate the grace of the swans on his own.

&

Two and a half hours later, somewhere between the blocking for the pas de deux in Act II and the Russian dancers, Will finds a moment to slip into the bathroom and call Jack.

“Jack? Jack, it’s me.”

“Will? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong, I—I just wanted to tell you, I got the part.”

“You—”

“I’m...I’m the Swan Queen,” he says, finally letting go of the smile that’s been threatening to bloom somewhere low in his chest. “He picked me.”

“Will. I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it.”

“I—I know. Thanks.” He takes a deep breath—there are suddenly tears touching the corners of his eyes and he blinks up at the fluorescent light.

“Are you calling me from the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“What’re you doing in there?”

“I enjoy the smell of urinal cake.”

Jack huffs at him.

“I’ll be home soon. I just wanted to tell you.”

“I—I’m so proud, Will. Really.”

“Thank you. Bye!” He ends the call and holds his phone to his chest for a moment. Somewhere in between storming into Hannibal’s office and looking at swans in Central Park, he’d forgotten to be happy. The feeling is warm and engulfing, and he has to swallow down a little laugh. Although he could already feel the pressure like a physical weight leaning on his shoulders—still.

_He picked me._

Will carefully unlatches the stall door and steps back out. His smile fades as quickly as it had come.

Emblazoned across the mirror in bright red is one word: “COCKSUCKER.” Frantically, he fumbles—hands shaking, he rips too many paper towels out of the dispenser and tries to wipe it off, but it’s stubborn and waxy, and he only succeeds in smearing it on his hands and across the mirror. He can see his own face, wide-eyed and too close, as he scrubs and scrubs.  

Somebody pokes their head into the bathroom. “Will? They want you back in the studio.”

“Ah—sorry,” he says, and turns on the tap to wet a towel to wipe away the word. His hands are shaking and he tears finger-shaped holes into the paper; it rolls and bunches as he tries to wash the word away.  

“Will?”

He avoids his reflection. The letters are still clear enough to anyone who cares to read it. He throws the sodden mess in the trash by the door, and leaves, red still staining his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The New York Ballet Company is a fictional ballet company. I wanted to write without worrying about getting the history of the New York City Ballet completely right, and I wanted to give it its own repertoire, etc.  
> \- If you would like to look up the ballet terms, the American Ballet Theatre dictionary is pretty great. It comes complete with videos.  
> \- Marie is named after Marie van Goethem, the model for the Degas sculpture “The Little Dancer.”


	2. Chapter 2

The incident trembles hard in his mind the whole way home, lending a shiver to his hands and smile when Jack proposes a toast to him over dinner: “Will, if only you knew. Even Bella would be crying right now.”

“I—I wouldn’t want to see her cry,” Will says.

“Tears of joy,” Jack says, with an indulgent smile.

Will nods. Of course he’d understood. Understanding isn’t his problem. It's taste. 

Crying is a trial no matter now pleased—he often finds himself wrapped in the world of reflection caught within the orb of a tear. Warping the world around them with the glistening impact of each one; they still shatter his reasoning easily; he resents them their undue influence on him, when sweat is just as hard-won and half as noticed. They both feel like exertion. Bella never cried in front of him, not even when she could barely breathe for pain. Only as she slept.

He runs the shower hot so that the mirror fogs up and he doesn’t have to look at it. The memory still throbs in the periphery of his vision as he undresses—as though his reflection is looking back at him with long, appraising glances. Like he’s meat. He shivers despite the warmth, the steam gathering opacity in his lungs, it's condensing right there in the flinching grasp of his ribs.

It’s easy enough for him to see it, he wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes. You slip into the blanched anonymity of the bathroom, nobody’s keeping track—the easy give of the tube of lipstick as you press too hard into the letters, C-O-C-K-S—

Will shakes himself and goes to turn off the shower, only to see—red staining your fingertips. There is red running thinly across his hands, under his nails. His breathing is loud in the bath. He steps out and rubs a small hole of vision in the misty glass.

Long, jagged lines in the skin of his shoulder-blade, ending in a bright rip in his skin. Blood wells up and he leans down to splash cold water on it, pat it dry with toilet paper that comes apart in his hands. The blood won’t stop running, hands covered in it, going to bleed out right here, right out of where his wings would be.

“Will? Will, what’re you doing in there?”

He blinks. The nail-marks are still there. The blood isn’t. A few speckles on the wad of toilet paper he’s holding. “Nothing, just…”

“All right. Just making sure you didn’t hit your head.” He hears Jack chuckle to himself, move away from the door, and lets loose a sigh of relief. Jack would lose it if he found out. He thought he’d stopped this, too. Will looks both ways before leaving the bathroom, shoulder angled toward the wall to hide. In the relative privacy of his room, he can inspect the scratches more carefully in the long mirror opposite his bed. They’ve barely broken the skin; closer to a rash than anything serious. But the hard clear imprint of his nails. Very carefully, he leans over the bed to open the bottom drawer of his dresser. It’s still there, clean and folded neatly like any other mundane garment, straps tucked on the insides. “For your own safety,” the doctor had said, kind eyes and good intentions.

Will snaps the drawer shut and throws himself under the covers, not bothering with clothes. The cotton abrades his shoulder, and he closes his eyes and pushes into the quiet grounding burning itch. And that’s how he falls asleep, leaning into pain.

&

The next morning, he’s sure to wear long sleeves despite the spike in muggy heat; summer’s last death throes spilling through the windows of the studio. He presses against the area on his shoulder as he stretches on the floor before class. His mouth tightens when Abigail sits down next to him.

“Hey.”

He can’t look at her, exactly. “Hi.”

“Congrats,” she says. “I knew it was gonna be you. You were great in the audition.”

“I fell,” he mumbles, reaching to touch his toes and press his face into his knees, feeling the easy give of his muscles. It’s easier this way, spared having to see her. He’s taken so much.

Abigail shrugs. “What, you got second thoughts?”

“Should I?”

She shrugs and draws a breath, but before she can answer, Madame du Maurier claps her hands to get their attention, so Will finds his place at the barre, folding up the leg of his sweatpants mid-calf so he can see the even turn of his ankle. They begin with the simple and routine, working their way up from _pliés_ to _battement tendu jeté_. It’s calming, rhythmic. Will just focuses on the details, keeping his shoulders and hips straight even as he uses the arch of his foot to propel his foot off the floor, two in front, two to the side, two to the back, and turn.

The door creaks open, and every head whips to the noise. It’s Hannibal. All around Will, dancers quickly disrobe—leg warmers and cardigans come off, the better to display their perfect form for him.

Will keeps his pants on. Hannibal can work for it, as far as he’s concerned. His suit is dark green plaid, like he’s some kind of fancy Christmas tree. Will snorts.

“Mr. Graham,” Madame du Maurier says, all sleet. “Would you care to share with the class?”

He feels himself flush, and looks down, as expected, but just as the piano cues up for them to start _rond de jambes_ , his gaze snags on Hannibal’s, like a rusty hasp. It’s the strike of flint sitting under his skin. He closes his eyes and the feeling rolls through him—the exertion over even the air you breathe, the effort it takes to be _Doctor Lecter_ , like standing in an arabesque all the time—the sea roiling beneath the bluff. He lets out an even breath and shakes his head, coming back to himself, but he’s moving mostly by memory now.

The exercise ends, and they all start to move the barres to the sides of the large studio. Will is entirely unsurprised when Hannibal tilts his head to indicate a corner of the room, and he walks over to him. “Hello, Dr. Lecter,” he says, looking at the buttons on his double-breasted jacket instead of at his face. They look like they’re carved from a rich wood, elaborate little things.

“Good morning, Will.” Hannibal is far too placid. “I trust you rested well.”

Will just watches him. It’s like he knows.

“Will,” he says. “I have a request.”

“What do you want?”

Hannibal purses his lips, as though mildly affronted by a snappish pet. “I want what’s best for you, Will.”

He desperately wants to say _I doubt that_ or maybe _fuck you very much_ , but he settles for a scowl, crossing his arms. “And?”

“I would like to see you _en pointe_.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The silence is reverberating. Everyone is listening, studiously looking anywhere and everywhere else.

“Are you going to throw a tantrum, Will?” Hannibal’s smile is hideously pleased.

“You did this on purpose,” Will hisses, stepping in closer.

“And if I did.” Hannibal stands up straighter. “Will you do it?”

“Dr. Lecter,” he says, after a long pause. “You seem to thrive on my resentment.”

“Hardly,” Hannibal says, the smile not quite leaving his face. “I thrive if you would thrive.”

Will laughs, and it’s an empty sound; pulls a shaky hand down across his face. “You make it sound like I have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“It’s going to destroy my feet. I hoped to keep my career.”

“Nonsense,” says Hannibal. “I will oversee your training personally. Bedelia has already agreed to help.”

The presumption. Will glares at her, too, just for good measure. He’s never heard her called by her first name; he’s pretty sure that he’d be frozen to the spot if he tried. “I doubt there’s a shoe that’ll fit.”

“I have also already talked to the shoe department about it.”

Another betrayal. “So it’s decided.”

“Not until you decide,” Hannibal says, and then has the audacity to lay a warm hand on Will’s arm. “The vulnerability of Odette—”

“Okay. Fine,” Will snaps.

“Pardon?”

“I’ll do it,” Will says through gritted teeth. Hannibal looks positively giddy. “But I swear to God, Dr. Lecter—”

“Please. Call me Hannibal.”

Will’s glare is murderous as he leans in, says low between them, “I swear to God, Hannibal. If I get injured, I will kill you with my bare hands.”

Hannibal looks positively delighted at the prospect. “Please come with me to my office.”

Even the pianist is watching him as he gathers up his things from the side of the room. Excruciatingly, he drops his water bottle on his way out, and has to bend to pick it up as Hannibal waits patiently by the door.

“Truth be told,” Hannibal says in the corridor. “Your appointment with Ms. Schuur is in half an hour, but...there is something we must discuss.”

“I thought you made sure we already had our discussion.”

“Please sit.”

Will looks around the office, and decides to slump in the big chair behind Hannibal’s desk.

“I know this is difficult for you,” Hannibal says, busying himself with a cabinet in the corner. “But the dynamism of the male form juxtaposed with the airy nature of pointe work; it achieves a an aesthetic balance—”

He sets a neatly folded towel, a bowl full of steaming water, and a straight-edged razor on the desk.

Will looks up at him. “No.”

“Will?”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.” Hannibal goes back to the cabinet.

Will closes his eyes. “I…” Giving in rubs like sandpaper, and he grits his teeth. “I look like I’m fourteen. When I’m clean-shaven.”

“It isn’t meant to feminize you,” Hannibal says, pulling a brush and a tube out of the cabinet.

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m already dancing Odette and going _en pointe_ for this.”

Hannibal’s hands still at the cabinet. “Will,” he says, and perches on the edge of the desk. “Where did you grow up?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Indulge me, please.”

Will sighs and looks at the floor. “I followed my father from the boatyards of Biloxi and Greenville to lake boats on Erie. Until Jack pulled me out.”

“All to end up here.” Hannibal scrutinizes him, tilts his head. His eyes are pushing against Will’s decisiveness, testing his mettle. “I ask because you seem to have some misgivings about the nature of my intentions.”

“Right.” Will lets out a bark of a laugh. “I’m a Southern hick who couldn’t tell art from an apple if it pinched me in the ass.”

Hannibal blinks, then looks at him for such a long moment that Will begins to feel the lap of apprehension on the shores of his mind. “If I had wanted a woman, I would have cast one.”

“I get it. _Gender is a primitive way to limit our own abilities to create art_ ,” Will repeats. 

“That all my dancers were so attentive.” Hannibal leans forward, and Will flinches. “You’ll want to stay still for this,” Hannibal says.

Will glares at him, but then leans his head back and closes his eyes.

He hears the splash of water, the drip of the towel as it’s wrung out, but startles as he feels the damp warmth cover his face.

“Easy,” Hannibal murmurs. He sounds so close. Will lets himself breathe. The towel smells vaguely like flowers, herbal and calming. He has the wild thought that he must look like he’s getting chloroformed; the towel sits on his face long enough for him to be suspicious of the calm flooding his senses with every deep inhale. He keeps his eyes closed. It’s easier this way.

Warm fingers rub gentle circles into his face.

“What—?”

“Oil,” Hannibal says, still so close. “To soften the skin and the hair. I have no desire to see you bleed out entirely.”

“Wouldn’t do to gut your revolutionary production.”

Next is the tickle of a brush, dense and soft, lathering cream on his face and down his neck. He feels it trickle down his collarbone.

“Don’t move.”

The command is firm. It’s like holding a pose in the background as part of the _corps de ballet_ —some of the hardest parts of dancing are staying still. So Will takes a deep breath, and waits. The scrape of the blade is smooth, and he can hear the rasp of it through the thick silence. Hannibal is breathing, warm and even. Every movement of Hannibal’s hands is transmitted through the edge of the razor, in the fine space between his lips and his nose, the curve of his chin. He fights the urge to swallow as Hannibal drags the razor down his neck. _Abigail and I will match_ , he thinks hysterically as he feels the metal against his thundering pulse. But Hannibal is careful and steady, the hand not holding the razor pulling his skin taut to ensure the tightest pull of the blade against his skin. The uneven dance of his fingers on Will’s face, full of the same attention Will would give to the finish of his hands in a _port de bras_ , moving with an efficiency that felt reassuringly ruthless.

“All finished,” Hannibal says, with a creak of the desk as he leans back to drop the razor in the bowl.

Will opens his eyes and watches as the lather residue on the razor blooms in the clear water. He is unprepared for the touch of the now-cold towel against his cheek as Hannibal wipes away the rest of the cream. The focus in his eyes as he presses against Will’s lips, follows the solitary trail down his throat to dip below the collar of his shirt. He feels it now, stronger than before—makes the mistake of meeting Hannibal’s gaze directly—the roil of the sea beneath the stern turn of Hannibal’s mouth, the jagged high-tide dark edge of the bluff in his eyes.    

“Thank you,” Will says. Hannibal opens his mouth, perhaps to say _you’re welcome_ —but there’s a knock at the door.

“That will be Ms. Schuur.” He gathers up the things on the table and stows them in his cabinet, and opens the door. “Please, come in.”

“You can just call me Marissa, you know. Would’ve been easier to do this downstairs,” she says, hauling a box in through the door. “But whatever you say, Dr. Lecter.”

“Thank you for accommodating us,” he says, stiff.

She kneels and immediately pulls Will’s feet toward her. He feels the heat of self-consciousness tinge his cheeks. Maybe Hannibal should have let him rinse off instead of shaving him. He raises a hand to rub at his face, and is startled when he feels it—almost silky against his fingertips, soft and smooth. “Oh,” he says.

Hannibal emits a pleased little sound from across the room, eyes fixed on Will’s movements like fishhooks, but Marissa just looks up at him with an arched eyebrow. Will wants to defend himself—he’s not having a revelation about having his feet touched or anything, but she goes back to work before he can get the words out. “Point for me,” she says, and pushes against the arch. “Stand. On _relevé._ Up, down. Again.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and looks at Hannibal. “Don’t know if there’s anything that’ll fit.”

Will looks down at his feet. Now that he thinks about pointe shoes, satin and elegant, they do seem hideously large.

“We discussed this earlier, I believe,” Hannibal says. His voice is a little too measured and level.

She sighs and digs around in the battered box she’d brought with her. “You’re gonna want a stiffer shank. You know, because of your weight. Your feet are strong enough to deal with it, so.” She starts pulling out pairs of shoes, each packed in a neat plastic bag. “You’re lucky we’ve got some ladies with big feet.” She unpacks a pair and, carefully, he slides them on.

“How does that feel?” Hannibal asks. “Roll through your foot.” He steps closer as Will tries to bend his foot, back and forth. His foot looks—pretty. He cringes at the thought; he’s seen the women’s feet, and he knows they’re anything but, but as he rises up slowly, he can’t help but admire the silhouette it gives him, although his feet feel like they’re bound to wooden slats, pinched and crushing his toes.

“I highly doubt Mr. Graham will hurt himself with a softer shank,” Hannibal says. “A longer vamp, I should think. And a slightly lower profile in the heel.”

He puts on the next pair. “What’s it supposed to feel like?”

“It is, of course, individual to every dancer. But—pliant enough that you can dance, but firm enough that you’re not hurting yourself. Roll through your foot again.”

This pair is softer, easier to stand in, and his toes are still pushed together more firmly than in his regular slippers. “It’s better,” he says.

“Try to stand. In first position. Keep your weight centered, pull _up._ ”

Will focuses on his feet, on the spread of his weight as he presses on the balls of his feet, pushing up and outward, using the muscles in his calves and thighs to stand all the way up. It catches him off-guard and he wobbles for a moment, unsteady.

Hannibal catches his wavering hand. “That’s it,” he says. “You can’t rely on your shoes to do the work for you, but they should provide support.”

“This is painful,” Will admits.

“Ms. Schuur—I trust you brought padding of some kind?”

“No.”

Hannibal turns his head to look at her,  face unnaturally still. “Pardon?”

She shrugs. “Didn’t think you were really gonna go through with this.”

“Will, take those off. Please,” he adds. “Ms. Schuur, at any point did I indicate that this was a joke?”

“I mean—”

“At any point.”

She exhales heavily, and looks at him, defiant. “No.”

“Please. Retrieve the necessary materials and deliver them to Mr. Graham as soon as possible. I will keep these”—he plucks the shoes out of Will’s hands—”and deliver a prototype to you. And then, if you could place an order, as you would with any other dancer, I would appreciate it.”

“Fine.” She gives Will an appraising look, staring at his feet for a moment—he gets the bizarre urge to hide them—then picks up her box and goes to leave.

“Ah, and Ms. Schuur, before you go—may I have your business card?”

&

He’s in the studio, early, alone, when Marissa nudges the door open with her foot and leaves a large cardboard box on the inside, looking at Will but saying nothing. He takes the box and carries it to the middle of the floor where he’d been sitting. Inside, there are ten pairs of shoes, each tucked inside each other and a plastic bag, several different bags of toe-pads, rolls of ribbon and elastic, unfurling and unraveling loose at the bottom. He can only stare at the lot, the stuffy feeling of _too much_ high in his chest—he'd agreed to this without thinking the whole thing through. Now he was stuck with a box full of pretty pink satin and without a clue. 

“Will.”

He jumps. “Didn’t hear you.”

Beverly sits next to him, and dumps her bag down too. “Heard Lecter earlier.”

“Who didn’t.”

She ignores that. “So, your first pair. I remember when I got mine. I was so excited, I danced around the house until my mom got tired of the noise and took ‘em away until class.”

He smiles weakly at her. “I’ve always seen you prepare your shoes,” he says, “but I have no idea what I’m doing, actually.”

“Gimme.” He passes her a pair and she inspects them. “So you’re a Freed man, huh. I’m a Bloch girl, myself.”

“They’re not mine.”

“Yet. Here, I’ll show you. I need to sew a new pair anyway, mine are nearly dead.” She takes a new pair out of her bag, handing them with sure, casual fingers. “First, you have to break the shank. Mine are much softer than yours, though, what are these made of, wood?” She takes her shoe by each end and nearly folds it in half, with a great cracking noise. Will winces. “That’s supposed to happen,” she reassures him. “You don’t know how soft you like yours yet, so I wouldn’t bang them up too hard.”

He imitates her, but she really goes after her shoes, twisting them like she’s wringing out a towel, then banging them on the floor. “To soften the box,” she says over the noise. “Got a noise complaint the weekend before _The Nutcracker_ last year. It was during the day, too. But I’m not as bad as some other people. Abigail goes after hers with a hammer.”

“How—how is she?”

“You mean, after you beat her for Odette?” Beverly looks up from her shoes, a quick, discerning glance. “Not great, but she’s not defacing mirrors, if that’s what you want to know.”

Will looks up sharply, an uneasy stirring in his chest.

“Brian told me,” she says. “About the bathroom. Knowing won’t make you feel better.”

Will looks away.

“So, is it true?”

He sits up and glares at her. “ _What?_ ”

“You get on your knees for the good Doctor?”

Embarrassment and rage flare and run molten to his face in a hot blush. “What? _No_ , I—”

“So fuck it,” Beverly says, with an angled brow and jump of her shoulder. “It’s not true—you know it, Dr. Lecter knows it—fuck ‘em.” She smiles at him once, quick, brilliant teeth.

“It feels—feels like everybody’s talking about me. Looking at me.” He means to grumble, he really does, but instead it comes out a little quiet.

“Again,” she adds. “Chin up, Graham. Don’t be paranoid. You’ll only end up confirming your worst suspicions.”

He exhales a short, sharp laugh at that. “It’s not my own suspicions I’m worried about.”

“It’s a ballet, not a murder mystery,” she says. “Not this time.”

She walks him through the rest—elastic and ribbons and darning the toe—and Will suspects she’s barely reining in the impulse to grab the shoes out of his hands and do it herself. “I asked my little sister for one of those curved needles,” she says. “She’s a vet. The _good daughter_ , went to a real school. Huge science nerd. I didn’t have the guts for it. In another life, maybe.” Leaning over to watch him work, even as she starts a second pair of her own shoes. “See there? You don’t want any gaps, or you’re going to be off balance.”

“Thanks,” he says as she’s folding ribbon for herself, two for each shoe. “You didn’t—you didn’t have to do this.”

She doesn’t look up, matching the placement of each ribbon on the insides of her shoes.“When I first got here, somebody told me that there was no way somebody _like me_ was gonna dance the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I told them that the blonde is just a wig.” She shrugs. “And then I worked my ass off. What I’m saying is—you better get good at this, because you’re going to sew a lot of shoes. Dr. Lecter did not look like he was fucking around.”

Will thinks of the perfect stillness of Hannibal’s face when Marissa Schuur had told him she hadn’t brought toe-pads, the press of the razor against his throat. “No,” he agrees. “No, he is not.”

&

Jack smiles—broad, white square teeth—when he comes through the door. “You shaved,” he says. “Finally.”

“Dr. Lecter asked me to,” Will says, gaze steady on the floor.

“And I’ve been asking you to, for—feels like forever.”

Like sandpaper. Indignation hisses in his ear. “I did it because he asked me to,” Will says. An unnecessary jab, he knows, but he feels like he’s all open soft spaces and it’s easier this way.

Jack looks at him, a warning. “Come and eat.”

Will drops his things outside his room, wishing he had time for more besides a brisk rinse of his hands in the dark bathroom. Eyes glint back at him in the reflection.

“Will?”

“I was washing my hands.”

Irritation stings like a roving wheel of needles, over the back of his neck, across his fingertips.

_Jack seems to have a lot to say._

“Leave me alone,” he mutters at the glint in the mirror. He goes back through the hallway to sit at the table. “Looks good,” he says, trying to pull his face into a smile.

“Alana Bloom called me earlier,” Jack says, spooning cauliflower onto Will’s plate. “Said you agreed with Dr. Lecter to go _en pointe._ ”

“That’s—that’s plenty,” Will says, pulling his plate back toward him. “And? What did you say?”

“Didn’t say anything.” Jack sits heavily across him, with a swift glare at the empty space on his plate. “If that’s what you agreed.”

Will toys with the food on his plate.  

_You’re gonna want a stiffer shank. You know, because of your weight._

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Jack helps himself to chicken. The serveware is just out of Will’s reach. It prickles of purpose.

“What?” He pushes—unusually, he pushes. But Hannibal’s hands are burning on his neck and his hand, his hand where he’d helped Will stay steady. He sees it for a brief moment, the metal tines of his fork glowing like embers with the heat, sizzling, cooking black burn marks into the clean white porcelain of his plate.

Jack puts his fork down. “I knew Dr. Lecter was—unusual,” he says. “But I didn’t know he was insane. You could’ve stopped this.”

The futility of choice boils somewhere in his sternum, a hot seethe that makes it hard to keep his voice level. “I couldn’t. He asked, but it wasn’t a question—”

“Are you saying he forced you?”

“No, but—”

“But what, Will?” Jack spears a plump bit of chicken with his fork. “It’s impossible. I thought…” He shakes his head, puts the food in his mouth. Will watches him chew. Futility congeals into a heavy lump that settles in his stomach.

“It’s not impossible,” Will says. “It’s not impossible, and I’m going to do it.”

“Will. You know the history—men _en pointe_ are supposed to make you laugh—”

“I know the history. And I’m not a joke,” Will snaps, jumping to his feet. The screech of the chair against the floor is too loud. He sees the way Jack eyes his clenched fists and consciously unfurls his fingers. He’s breathing a little fast, feels the bellows of his diaphragm overwork in the clear cold ringing silence. This, standing up in this place, feels new, fresh, almost _invigorating_ —

“Sit down,” Jack says. “Eat.”

The urge to shout _No_ , to demand an apology, to demand Jack’s belief—comes over him in a series of waves, pulling his vocal cords taut. But it’s hard to break well-worn habits. So he swallows down impulse—obeys, sits and eats as quickly as possible, chewing alongside the bitter bite of resentment.

He abandons the room for bed as soon as he can.

But in the dark, accompanied only by the muffled sounds of Jack cleaning up in the kitchen, it’s easier to let every thought sink his convictions. Sleeping has never been his strong suit. “I’m not a joke,” he whispers to himself. It sounds hollow here, facing the memory Marissa Schuur’s sour scowl at fitting him, incredulity coming off her like a tangible thing; the clipped way Abigail’s words had come out of her mouth. It's easy to guess at the sincerity of Hannibal's words, as firm as they had seemed. He flexes his feet underneath the sheets. They feel fragile. He turns over, but the give of his stomach against the bed is just as unappealing a thought as shattered ankles. 

_The vulnerability of Odette—_

Fleeting thoughts detain his imagination. He can’t empty his head of doubt—only physical exhaustion, slow, tugs him into the realm of dreams.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If you want more info on pointe shoes, check out these videos: [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bNlYVLkgF1o), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dDk1f4t79EY).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Illustrations for Birds Of A Feather - Hannibal BigBang 2016](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037340) by [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/pseuds/TheSeaVoices)




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